


gone to vinegar

by forsyte



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, probably less dark than tags would suggest but [makes so-so hand motion]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 08:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21250238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsyte/pseuds/forsyte
Summary: If this is his best chance to escape, to overpower Orochimaru and maybe, maybe, join the fight alongside Tsunade and Naruto, protect and aid them, he can’t miss his opportunity.He throws himself sideways, tumbling awkwardly, aiming to slide down the side of the giant snake. Even as he rolls, though, he knows he's too slow, knows it's not good enough, not with his hands bound and head spinning, not facing his old rival—It's barely a surprise when he's dragged backwards by a hold on his ankle—not gently, but not quickly either.--Jiraiya fights Orochimaru atop a giant snake summons. It doesn't go well.





	gone to vinegar

**Author's Note:**

> _anger is just love, left out and gone to vinegar___  
i watched the scene from the search for tsunade arc wherein orochimaru and jiraiya fight each other on top of a giant snake and orochimaru says, roughly, "look at you, once famous for being wild and uncontrollable," which gave me some very horny inspiration and , uh, this entire fic followed. do mind the tags. enjoy.

“Look at you,” murmurs Orochimaru, his  _ creepy fangs _ centimeters away from Jiraiya’s unprotected neck. “Once famous for being wild and uncontrollable, and now here you are. How far you’ve fallen.” 

Jiraiya snarls curses at him through the gag in his mouth and struggles fiercely, but his hands are tightly bound behind him and the drug Tsunade slipped into his sake—because of  _ course _ she drugged him, how could he have expected differently—still courses through his blood, dulling his chakra and his reflexes. He drops to his knees, slipping a little on the slick scales of the giant snake beneath them, buying himself time, but Orochimaru follows him down almost gracefully, anticipating his motion. There’s no getting away as Orochimaru sinks his teeth into his neck, as much as he wants to be  _ anywhere else, shit,  _ and he pants raggedly at the pain and, worse, the wet feeling of his own blood coursing down his neck in rivulets, mixing with his one-time teammate’s saliva. How the hell did they ever work together? How the hell did they ever grow so far apart? For the life of him, Jiraiya can’t tell. 

Orochimaru pulls back slightly and—oh,  _ disgusting,  _ that feeling is his overlong, mutated tongue  _ licking _ Jiraiya’s blood up, eager as a cat lapping cream. Jiraiya shivers in complete and utter disgust, and no small amount of fear, either. He’s totally trapped here, at the mercy of his fellow Sannin, and—Orochimaru doesn’t  _ have _ mercy, so there’s probably something he’s planning above and beyond the standard-fare gloating of an enemy shinobi, and whatever it is, Jiraiya’s not going to enjoy it. 

He doesn’t think he’s bleeding anymore, but—Orochimaru’s tongue is still on his neck, higher up this time, and it feels… 

He’s sensitive, there, always has been, and a touch like  _ that  _ right below his jaw, when he’s tied down and keyed up, body full of adrenaline and ready for a fight, isn’t… It’s not the pain he was expecting. He tries to shut his eyes, breathe through the foreign feeling and channel his chakra to burn through the ropes, but it’s like every nerve in his body connects to his throat and Orochimaru is lighting all of them up, one by one, with the wet heat of his  _ godawful _ tongue, and between the throbbing pain of the bite and the panic and confusion of the situation it doesn’t take long before Jiraiya’s gasping, thrashing against his bonds, trying to get  _ away  _ just to clear his mind for a second. 

Orochimaru straightens up, his gold-coin eyes boring into Jiraiya, and snickers, a kind of raspy noise that’s a far cry from his typical dramatic cackling. His nose scrunches up with the expression, and he looks— 

Jiraiya will throw himself headfirst into the sea and sink all the way to the bottom before he lets himself admit it, but his teammate was never  _ ugly,  _ a kind of sharp beauty suffusing his features—pretty like a snake’s iridescent scales in the sunlit moment before it strikes—and age hasn’t changed this about him. Now, though, he looks—cute, is the only word for it, so  _ pleased  _ that Jiraiya is helpless in front of him, and oddly enough it’s that which makes Jiraiya realize, with a sick horror, exactly what Orochimaru is doing to him. 

The hand sliding up Jiraiya’s shirt doesn’t hurt. 

And, more importantly, it  _ doesn’t hurt,  _ and Jiraiya leans away from it in fear. He’d take Orochimaru’s nails slicing ribbons from his skin over this creeping ache that sparks down his spine, the vague hope that Orochimaru might continue his tender ministrations, because pain he knows what to do with, knows how to control and endure, but  _ this— _

Pleasure like this might kill him. He’s not as much of a fool as he acts,  _ knows  _ he’s more interested in… carnal pursuits than he should be, but there’s a difference between engaging in some visits to massage parlors, some harmless groping—

( _ Harmless for you,  _ a voice berates him in his head, and it sounds like Tsunade—Sage, he hopes she’s still alive—)

—and getting  _ manhandled  _ like this by his former teammate, missing-nin, kage of the Hidden Sound and enemy of Konoha, the man who  _ killed  _ the Sandaime, except—it’s not manhandling, not really. Orochimaru is cruelly, brutally gentle as he trails a hand over Jiraiya’s chest, and the warmth of it—strange, unexpected, that he isn’t cold-blooded like the serpents he contracts with—is burning out every thought in his head. 

He loses a few seconds to the sweet and terrible brush of Orochimaru’s fingers down his stomach, his other hand planted on Jiraiya’s chest, and then realizes abruptly that Orochimaru is occupied and seemingly distracted. Jiraiya is  _ also _ distracted—it would be hard not to be—but if this is his best chance to escape, to overpower Orochimaru and maybe, maybe, join the fight alongside Tsunade and Naruto, protect and aid them, he can’t miss his opportunity. 

He throws himself sideways, tumbling awkwardly, aiming to slide down the side of the giant snake. Even as he rolls, though, he knows he's too slow, knows it's not good enough, not with his hands bound and head spinning, not facing his old rival—

It's barely a surprise when he's dragged backwards by a hold on his ankle—not gently, but not quickly either. Jiraiya bites down on the fabric in his mouth, braces himself and kicks blindly even as he knows he's outclassed, and hears a pained snarl from behind him. He triangulates, aims for the source, hoping it's enough—

(It's not, he's never enough—)

For his efforts he feels more of the strange twine Orochimaru's always seemed to favor looped between his wrists, feels a touch on his ankle and yells denial, kicks again,  _ thrashes,  _ but he's pinned down sharp and sudden, like he never had a chance in the first place 

(he didn't)

and nearly hog-tied, only a short length of rope left between his wrists and his ankles, the great and powerful Toad Sage that he is nearly helpless, and right there and then he realizes just how  _ fucked  _ he is, how much danger they're all in—

(Tsunade, her bright-eyed assistant, Naruto,  _ Sage  _ he brought his  _ student _ into this)

—he closes his eyes—stupid, really, but with so many handicaps what's one more—and quietly despairs. 

"Always so determined, Jiraiya," Orochimaru says from somewhere above him, in that silky-sweet tone of his that implies the opposite. Jiraiya recalls it vividly from their genin days. 

_ Can't make it easy for you, bastard,  _ he'd have replied a lifetime ago, banter coming easily even with the sharp-edged orphan prodigy on his team, snake-eyed and strange as he was. It's decades later, though, years and years past a shinobi's average lifetime stretching behind him like the road he's followed for so long, and with his student and old friend left fighting without him he can't muster up a fraction of his typical bravado. Orochimaru's not expecting an answer, if the gag still between his teeth is any indication, and for a single shameful heartbeat Jiraiya is  _ grateful _ to him—

It's the situation getting to him, he knows, he  _ knows _ these tactics, half-remembered briefs on T&I protocol coming to mind, but he still berates himself. He cannot be  _ grateful _ to Orochimaru, not with the danger Naruto is in, not with his ankles bound to his hands, not—

(not even for the palm that rubs briefly at the back of his neck, an implicit threat but so grounding it almost hurts—)

(It doesn't hurt, though. Nothing does, and he keeps waiting for it to start—) 

"So quiet," says Orochimaru contemplatively. Jiraiya stiffens, warning woven into every fiber of his being, tries to lean away from the nail that traces down the shell of his ear. "Cat got your tongue?" 

Nothing good can come of that tone of voice, and Jiraiya's not in a position to fight right now. The drug is clearing out of his system inch by hazy inch, but  _ not fast enough _ . 

"I wonder," muses Orochimaru, his dry voice curious, "how much effort it would take to keep you like this." 

Panic worms its way down Jiraiya's spine, and he can't quite keep his breath from coming quicker at the thought, can't stop himself from struggling uselessly, pulling at his bonds, and a thought springs to mind, one he hasn’t had for years—

When he was younger he'd wanted Orochimaru to  _ see  _ him, look  _ at  _ him instead of  _ through _ him, and the age he was at, he wasn't  _ unaware  _ of the things people used ropes for, and though he never quite let himself think of his teammate that way, tried to leave those flashes of fantasy unacknowledged, the way he wanted to tie him down and, worse, the way he wanted to  _ be  _ tied down—

—he had wanted Orochimaru's eyes on him. Desperately. And now they are, and though every muscle is screaming at him to move, to flee or fight, there's a tiny part of him, buried, that preens a little at the attention. 

He hates himself for it. He fights the hand in his hair, the grip on his wrists that pulls him up, shifting him onto his knees. He turns his head, and then the expression on Orochimaru's face stuns him into stillness.

Jiraiya's never seen him look at people much. Their abilities, maybe, their weaknesses, anything he could  _ use,  _ but—there's a light in his eyes, burning avarice as his gaze rakes over Jiraiya, no doubt taking in what he's done—the bloody holes he's left in Jiraiya's neck. The slender thread of saliva Jiraiya can feel dripping down from the corner of his mouth, undignified and messy. The rope stretched taut between his wrists and ankles, pulling his shoulders back. 

The expression isn’t a new one. Orochimaru’s always been proud of his work. Jiraiya’s just never qualified as his work before. 

“Look at you,” Orochimaru says, echoing his earlier words, but where earlier his tone was laced with mockery through and through, the gentleness of his hands a thinly-veiled threat and nothing more, this is somewhere odd between greed and reverence, and oh, oh, this is so much  _ worse,  _ this is Orochimaru reveling in something he considers his own, and he’s never been good at letting go of what he felt he deserved. 

Foreboding creeps over Jiraiya like the shadow of a thundercloud, almost enough to drown out the thrill, quiet but sure, that sends shivers through the core of him, but before he can process it shouts ring out from below, panicked yelling reaching a fever pitch—the assistant and Naruto both, and he lunges in their direction even as he realizes he’s resigned himself to nothing more than falling on his face again—

Orochimaru catches him by the shoulder easily, pulls him back. “You are so  _ very _ easy to distract,” he says, chiding, but Jiraiya doesn’t  _ care,  _ strains towards where his comrades are fighting, so uselessly close and so far away, heedless of the strength in the fingers holding him back. 

Orochimaru sighs, exasperated, such a petty sound for someone so feared, and the roaring in Jiraiya’s ears clears enough to hear him speak, understand his words.  
“Since you are so _admirably _occupied with the fate of your fellows,” he says, and his tone sounds so languidly _bored_ that Jiraiya knows whatever he’s about to say will be terrible, “why don’t I give you something to think about.” 

He crouches, settling next to Jiraiya with an alien fluidity, and the next sentence is delivered much,  _ much _ too close to Jiraiya’s ear for comfort. 

“If you prove sufficiently diverting,” Orochimaru says, “I might be convinced to leave your apprentice intact.” He pauses. “Jinchuuriki of the Kyuubi, is he? You two are traveling to protect him from Akatsuki, then.”   
Jiraiya’s jaw is sore from trying to work the gag loose enough to speak, but finally, finally, some useful information—

(finally, he knows what happens if he fails, if he doesn't distract Orochimaru, and it's—

worse, he would  _ rather  _ be tortured—) 

“What do you know about Akatsuki,” he says, and the words come out mangled but recognizable. 

“Me?” Orochimaru asks, faux-innocent. “As of this moment, I know nothing about Akatsuki.” 

Jiraiya recognizes the game he’s playing, and—he’s tired, and he’s not bargaining from a position of power, hasn’t been since Orochimaru forced him onto his face and tied his hands, and he can’t fight right now, and if he spends enough time listing his reasons maybe he’ll convince himself that it’s a tactical choice to give in, rather than a personal failing.   
“And if I comply?” he says, wearily, and it’s the hardest and easiest thing he’s ever done. 

The touch on his wrist is unexpected, startling, and he can feel himself twitch before he has a chance to suppress the reaction. He doesn't even a  _ little  _ bit enjoy that Orochimaru's hands are out of sight, that he's so distracted he isn't keeping track of where they are on him. None of Orochimaru’s titles, impressive as they are, constitute a proper excuse for Jiraiya’s inattention. ( _ Never good enough, _ his own mind berates, and though he silences the voice he knows from long and tiring experience that it'll appear again.) 

"Whoever said anything about  _ complying,"  _ purrs Orochimaru, stroking his wrist. Bile rises in his throat. It sounds like Orochimaru's implying—no,  _ no—  _

"You misunderstand. A common problem with you. I don't want you to  _ comply _ with me, Jiraiya," Orochimaru says, sugar-sweet,  _ horrifyingly _ so. "I want you to fight me until you realize you cannot win.”

He must reach out, because there's a hand under Jiraiya's chin, forcing his head up and to the side to see—his ex-teammate's face, alight with—glee, cruel and terrible and  _ inhuman _ — 

( _ beautiful. _ ) 

When he sees Jiraiya's face, the dawning comprehension/horror

(/anticipation,)

he snickers, again that dry, rasping noise of pure amusement, delight at another's expense.   
"You sick  _ bastard, _ " Jiraiya snarls, muffled, because it's what Orochimaru wants him to do, and throws himself to the side, knocking Orochimaru off-balance. If he can’t protect his apprentice properly, he can at least give his old teammate the fight he’s looking for. It’s close to the same thing, if Orochimaru keeps his word, and Jiraiya tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach when he thinks about just how unlikely that is. He channels chakra to his hands, or tries to—there’s something impeding its flow, more than Tsunade’s headache special, and  _ really, _ there are  _ better times _ to find out that his former colleague has finally made headway in his efforts to create chakra-suppressing ropes—and, failing that, twists to dig his teeth into the arm underneath him. He’s finally,  _ finally _ quick enough. Orochimaru hisses like the wounded animal he is, writhes—a far cry from the persona he's always loved to project, chilly and in-control—wriggles until he can get his other hand out from under him and shoves his fingers into Jiraiya’s eyes in retaliation, forcing him to back off. 

Orochimaru's hand leaves his face and Jiraiya immediately snaps at it, his teeth missing by millimeters. Whatever stopped his sadistic teammate from destroying his eyes entirely, there's no time to thank it, because Orochimaru's weight is braced again and his hand is wrapped around Jiraiya's neck and pressing, a viciously precise blood choke, and there's—

nothing he can do. He struggles, as much as he can, but his bonds might as well be iron. He tries to spit fire but his head is swimming, spots

dancing

in his vision, dizzy, and he slumps forward—

" _ Really _ ," says a voice from far away, and he can breathe again, oxygen flooding back into his system. Orochimaru clicks his tongue, shakes his head, the picture of disappointment, as if Jiraiya is a student who's failed to perform to standards. His hand is still wrapped around Jiraiya's throat. "You've gone so  _ soft _ , Jiraiya. You've gotten weaker since we last crossed paths. I didn't think it was possible." 

"Brave words from the coward who won't untie me," Jiraiya snaps, and it's weak, a shamefully obvious ploy. He can't care. He hasn't heard any sounds from below and he can't see from where he's kneeling, and he hopes,  _ hopes _ that things are going better for his comrades, tries not to think otherwise, but until he sees them—

Orochimaru chuckles, his thumb rubbing Jiraiya's throat in a gesture so casually intimate it sends shudders down his spine. "You allowed yourself to be captured in the first place," he returns. He tilts his head, eyes glinting, and tightens his grip fractionally. "Far be it from me to restrain myself.  _ You _ were trying to kill me, after all." He yawns theatrically, showing off his inhumanly sharp teeth, and leans in—Jiraiya tries to lean away, can't, not with the hand on his neck—to— _ Sage,  _ to  _ nuzzle _ into Jiraiya's throat, scraping his fangs across the skin,  _ playing  _ with him— 

_ No,  _ Jiraiya thinks furiously, pointlessly. He grits his teeth. 

"Get the hell off me," he says, a pale echo of his usual bravado.

" _ Make _ me," replies Orochimaru, so close Jiraiya can feel his breath puff against his skin. "Or persuade me, since your mouth is the only part of you that isn't incapacitated. Well," he amends slyly, and his hand, the one not on Jiraiya's throat, trails down, "not the  _ only _ part." 

He's—Jiraiya tries not to think about what he's doing, but Orochimaru's hand wanders down into his pants and his breath catches, stutters, and of  _ course  _ the bastard notices, he's not an S-ranked threat for nothing, and he says "Use your  _ words,  _ Jiraiya," right as he's skimming the lightest of touches over Jiraiya's inner thigh. 

Jiraiya wants him to  _ stop.  _ Wants him to get his  _ fucking  _ hands off his skin, wants to burn his clothes and soak in the hot springs 'til he's sure every trace of his touch is gone. Wants to never have followed Tsunade, wants to never have come back to the village in the first place. Whatever choice he made to land himself here, he would give no small amount of blood to turn back time and remake it, the right way this time. 

(Wishes, stupidly, that he'd had this in a different context, wishes he could enjoy his ex-teammate's teeth at his throat, his clever tongue—)

"Stop," he rasps, the only thing he can manage to say. Kicks himself for it, because Orochimaru's clearly not taking feedback on his behavior, but the touches pause, hovering over his skin, and for a moment something like hope sparks—

and is quenched, immediately, by Orochimaru's huff of amusement, the hand on his thigh drifting up and closing over his—

"Not good enough, I'm afraid," Orochimaru says,  _ purrs,  _ thumb rubbing Jiraiya's cock the same way it did his throat, casual and simultaneously so clear a threat it stills him, trembling in time with the unwanted touch. He thinks of Tsunade and Naruto and how if he screws this up they could die, if they're even still alive—

(change course, think of  _ anything  _ else—)

he pulls at the ties around his wrists instead, a flimsy distraction from what's happening to his, his people, to  _ him.  _ One that lasts for a minute, maybe, and then Orochimaru says—

offhandedly—

"Your self-restraint is impressive," sounding bored, and for a single fraction of a second Jiraiya is  _ relieved,  _ but if Orochimaru's bored with him that means—

he'll find something else to occupy his time with. He forces himself to keep his hands still, stops fighting to keep his face straight and his breathing even, and, hating himself, lets his hips twitch up, near-imperceptible, and— 

it's not an act, is the worst thing. For all that he hates everything about this, he can't control the way it feels, and it's—

pleasurable. He can't bring himself to call the feeling  _ good.  _

Orochimaru pulls his hand out of his pants and Jiraiya looks up at him, startled, 

(worried that he's decided he's abruptly no longer interested—Jiraiya's seen him leave conversations mid-sentence, when they were a team, before—)

but all he's doing is—wrapping his tongue around his hand, making a  _ show  _ of it, like licking his palm is too  _ pedestrian.  _ Jiraiya concentrates on the disgust, because if he dwells on the heat that flares, incongruous, at the sight—

(He wonders, before he can stop himself, what that tongue would feel like around—) 

and then the hand is back on him, slick and wet and impossible to ignore and if Jiraiya's teeth weren't clenched as tight as he could bear he'd be saying— _ something  _ nonsensical, idiotic, he knows. He’s never  _ minded _ his own tendencies before, but there’s a difference when he doesn’t have a choice, and so he locks his jaw and tries to ignore the helpless little noises coming from his own throat, his breath catching— 

Orochimaru looks up, one eyebrow arched. “Enjoying yourself?”

How is he supposed to answer that,  _ how— _

Orochimaru doesn’t seem to care whether or not he answers, though, which is—it makes sense. Better than the alternative, if the alternative is answering wrong, if the alternative is giving Orochimaru the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten the best of him, if the alternative is saying  _ no  _ (if the alternative is saying  _ yes.) _ He keeps touching Jiraiya and it keeps feeling overwhelming and awful and disgusting

(amazing, it would be amazing, in  _ any _ other context but this,)

and despite this Jiraiya is—too fucking scared of the consequences to keep himself from moving with it, just the slightest bit, just enough for Orochimaru to notice and approve

(and hold it against him) 

and that doesn’t make it—less stimulating, and if Orochimaru doesn’t decide to bite his dick off or something, he’s going to—come all over the both of them, probably within the next couple of minutes, and then—

He doesn’t want to think about what happens after that, and it’s not—hard, to sink into the moment, especially when Orochimaru’s  _ revolting _ tongue snakes out and

(oh

oh  _ fuck,  _ that’s—)

wraps around him and he can’t keep himself from cursing a blue streak, rolling his hips into it. It’s a thousand kinds of wrong, to be having this kind of near-religious experience, divine,  _ sublime,  _ on the back of a giant snake summoned by his ex-teammate, his sworn enemy, murderer and—and—his thoughts stutter, splinter, words flickering out into sensation-reaction- _ want,  _ and then he whites out entirely— 

Orochimaru slurping his tongue back into his mouth like an oversized wet noodle is the first thing Jiraiya becomes aware of, fading back into consciousness. The second thing is how pleased he looks with himself, and the third thing is the creeping horror and shame that steals over Jiraiya, bit by bit, as he processes what just  _ happened— _

Orochimaru fastidiously brushes himself off—entirely for show, the dramatic bastard (clearly he hasn’t changed, except for all the ways in which he _has, _except none of those ways are the little things that made up his personality all those years ago and it’s—confusing, disorienting, familiar in the worst way) and stands abruptly, looking down at Jiraiya—possessively, there's no other way to describe it, _Sage, what happens_ _now_—before striding over to the side of his summons to look down at what’s going on below, as if he's going to join the battle, no, _no_—

What’s going on below turns out to be Tsunade, who punches Orochimaru square in the face, sending him skidding across the slick surface of the snake’s back to fall, limply, off the other side. 

“Jiraiya, what have you been  _ doing _ up here?” she yells, rounding on him. Dear, sweet, beautiful Tsunade. How he’s missed her.

He can’t muster up a verbal response, blinking at her in shock, and that must tip her off that  _ something’s  _ up because she doesn’t ask questions, just slices through the ropes and helps him stand, get his clothes in order. It’s kind of her, but—he doesn’t need her help. He can stand on his own. It’s fine. Barely anything happened up here. Orochimaru certainly didn’t hurt him badly, from a physical standpoint, and judging from the way she limps Tsunade can’t boast the same. 

But she supports him, wraps her arm around his middle and leans against him, just for a moment, lets him go before they reach the edge and drop back down to their respective charges. It’s… kind of her. He pays her back by not saying anything about it, and escaping with all his limbs intact to boot.

The situation on the ground is… fine, confusingly enough. Orochimaru is nowhere to be found. Neither is Kabuto. If they’re still around anywhere nearby, they aren’t actively attacking, which is a plus. Tsunade’s assistant (Shizune, her name is Shizune, he learns) is… fine, or not actively bleeding out, which is more-or-less the same thing; Naruto was close to death and now he’s walking and talking. He’ll need a hospital bed when they reach Konoha, a trip they should make as soon as possible. Konoha needs her new Hokage, after all. 

He’s not thinking about it. 

“Ey, ey, Ero-Sannin, what happened when you and that creepy snake bastard were up there fighting?” Naruto asks, wrinkling his nose. 

He flinches before he can stop himself, offering a quick prayer of thanks to cosmic luck that he’s facing away from Naruto, and fixes a long-suffering expression to his face when he turns around. “Nothing interesting, Naruto,” he says, and smiles slightly despite himself

(despite everything)   
when the boy groans, ruffles his hair. “We just talked.” 

"Boring," Naruto complains, and launches into a play-by-play of what happened on the ground.

Everyone else was fine without his intervention, they would have been  _ fine _ —

He's not thinking about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> abrupt ending, maybe, but i'm not one for drawing things out after the fact. comment if you're so inclined; i'd love to hear people's thoughts <3


End file.
